The Bacchae
by Baffoonery
Summary: It's seventh year, and Albus Severus is struggling with the burden of a world-famous heritage and his insatiable desire for one Scorpius Malfoy. As he tries unsuccessfully to maintain family ties and unrealistic expectations, he finds himself slipping further and further into the darkness. Every man has a shadow, after all. Albus/Scorpius slash, Albus/Rose implied.
1. yearning

**A/N **I don't know how long this will be. This was just an idea that came to me. I started thinking about the next gen, and especially about Albus Severus, and I wondered about how the wizarding world would have rebuilt after the war.

This fic will be dark and angsty. It's also slash, so you've been warned. Also, beware for cynicism. Feel free to tell me what you think.

* * *

_**Can you, a mortal, register your strength against a God?** (Dionysus, The Bacchae)_

* * *

The Hogwarts Express cut its way through the English countryside, the trees and endless fields drifting by like a rolling wave. Albus Potter leant his head back against the leather seat and willed his eyes to close. He'd been up for the past few nights until the soft, pre-dawn light had trickled into his attic bedroom and the distant, sleepy sounds of a household awakening had reached his ears. The thought of returning to Hogwarts, the place that had been his father's only home, filled him with dread. It was another year of impossible expectations, crushing family ties, and the shadowy, all-encompassing simmering desire for one Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.

Resisting the urge to groan (whether it be from lust or exhaustion), Albus ran a hand through his straight black hair and exhaled heavily through his nose. Across from him, Rose Granger-Weasley met his gaze and raised a single questioning eyebrow. Albus didn't even have to speak. At his badly-hidden morose expression, Rose tipped her head back even further and regarded him with an exasperated look. She snapped her book shut, one finger marking her page (the dust jacket barely concealing the Muggle title of the novel underneath), and watched him carefully for a few moments.

Albus felt himself heat up under her steady gaze. His cousin, and best friend, knew more about him than he'd care to admit. If situations were different, Albus had no doubt he'd end up marrying her one day; in fact, his uncle Ron rather gave the impression that he'd like nothing more.

"Do you want a sleeping charm, Al?" Rose asked eventually, her tone belying the fact that she understood full well that this was only a small aspect of Albus' discomfort.

Albus allowed himself to sigh heavily. He slumped down in his seat, knocking their knees together. He gave her a tired smile. "I'm alright, Rosie," he murmured, the nickname slipping easily off his tongue. "I'm thinking about school, is all."

Rose gave him another exasperated look, but didn't pursue it. Instead, she twisted a lock of her hair around a finger, the other hand still balancing the book on her lap. Albus watched the cheerful afternoon sunlight slide off the tangled, copper wave of her waist-length hair. She'd inherited her mother's impossibly bushy, curly hair, and it rather gave her the look of a frazzled lion, although her hair was the only messy thing about her. Rose's face was still, like the unbroken surface of a lake, the oval shape a mask upon which any expression could play. Her eyes were blue and cold and calculating, the colour matching the navy piping of her robes and the Ravenclaw insignia on her chest. Rose was a study in observation, a mistress at schooling emotion and taming logic. Her nose was a curved slope, which, along with the translucent, ginger fringe of her eyelashes, was the only indication of her Weasley heritage.

The lapsed into silence for a while, both watching the countryside morph from farmland into desolate Scottish wilderness. Albus fidgeted constantly with the cuffs of his pressed white shirt and the end of his silver and green tie. Eventually he leaned languidly across to fidget with Rose's book, but she snatched it out of his reach, batting away his grabbing hand with a short laugh.

"What does uncle Ron think of your Muggle obsession?" Albus teased, groping at her knee instead.

Rose grinned, the action transforming the smooth planes of her face until she looked like a young child. She shrieked and pinched Albus' hand until he retreated, giggling madly. "Mum's been on a mission to change his mind about Muggle culture," Rose informed him imperiously, clutching the book to her chest, characterising her mother's factual, authoritative tone. Albus laughed: aunt Hermione had seemingly been on a constant crusade to educate her husband for as long as he could remember. He would've thought she'd give up by now.

"And how's that going?"

Rose shrugged, the smile slipping off her face. Albus knew she only found intellectual solace in the company of her mother. Uncle Ron was too deliberately obtuse at times for both their liking. Rose got along with her father, but it was in a superficial, how's-school-going-oh-that's-nice-darling sort of way. "He was a bit surprised when I told him my subject choices for this year," Rose admitted after a pause. She glanced down at her book self-consciously. "He wanted to know why I wasn't doing Defence."

Albus sat up straighter, pulling his knees away from Rose, and tiding his rumpled uniform. "What did you say?"

Rose shrugged again. "Does it even matter?" she answered with swift impatience. "At least mum was pleased."

They lapsed into silence again. Family was sometimes an awkward topic between them… It frequently reared its head at the traditional Sunday night Granger-Weasley-Potter dinners. Somehow or another the conversation would steer around to politics or the Ministry, or remaining post-War efforts, or even Muggle society, and it would inevitable end with Rose and Albus, side by side and huffing in teary-eyed frustration as both sets of parents avoided eye contact and toyed with the cutlery. Conversation was determined to stay light at the dinners, with Albus' parents breaking off into a long-winded spiel about Quidditch, backed up with enthusiasm by uncle Ron and James, interjected at times with a confusing anecdote by Lily and Hugo, both giggling fit to burst and finishing each other's sentences. Indulgence was given to those children who performed their part well, simpering about school or boyfriends and girlfriends with smiling indifference.

A few weeks ago, James had collared Albus after a particularly strained dinner. "Why do you have to be so difficult?" he'd demanded, standing too close to Albus, his mother's blue eyes glittering with Weasley indignation. "Why can't you ever talk about nice things? Why do you always have to be so fucking _depressing_?"

Albus shook himself out of his reprieve and gave Rose a secret smile. "It's you and I, babe," he drawled, mimicking James' awful attempts at pick-up lines. Rose laughed in delight, and Albus' heart swelled with affection for his best friend.

He could love her, he knew. He could love her, and they could marry, and have 2.5 children and live in a blissful cocoon of books and knowledge and cosy evenings by the fireplace.

Albus knew all this, but he couldn't stop the sense of _wrongness _the picture conjured up.

* * *

"Where's Scorpius, do you know?" Albus asked Rose as they got off the train, the platform swarming with Hogwarts students. The air was crisp with the threat of autumn, the sun having disappeared behind a cloud some time ago. Now it peered out miserably, bashfully allowing biting gusts of wind to rattle the tall pines and bleak Scottish surroundings.

"I think he's coming late again," Rose said over her shoulder, using her bulging book bag to plough their way through the heaving crowd. "He said something in his letter about daddy issues."

Albus tried to ignore the pang of jealousy at her words. He'd tried writing to Scorpius at the beginning of the summer, his words blossoming across pages and pages of parchment every few days or so. At first he'd spoken in delight of the comfort of home and the pleasure of his parent's long-awaited company, until things at home weren't so rosy anymore, and conversations turned impatient and doors started being slammed.

Once upon a time, his father had knelt down before him, on the morning of Albus' first day at Hogwarts, and had sworn that no matter what, it was his choice. He could be a Slytherin or a Gryffindor, and he'd still be loved and loved and loved.

Somewhere along the line things changed, and Albus wasn't the quirky, bright-eyed kid he'd once been.

The carriage ride up to the school went quickly. He and Rose occupied themselves with aimless chatter about new teachers and classes, safe in the knowledge that they were the two brightest seventeen-year-olds in the vicinity.

At the entrance to the Great Hall, Rose threw him a pout and hugged him tight. "Tell Scorpius we'll meet him in the library tomorrow," she instructed Albus, squeezing his hand affectionately. "And try not to bicker too much."

Albus watched her disappear into the crowd of blue and black before turning away to his own house on the far side of the Hall. In the corner of his eye he could see Hugo and Lily huddled at the Gryffindor table, murmuring closely, and James a few seats down, having a loud conversation with some of his Quidditch friends. His brother didn't see him.

The Slytherin house, in comparison to the rest of the school, was dismally small. No one really knew why, but numbers had fallen dramatically following the reinstatement of Hogwarts after the war. Albus guessed it was a sort of mass-imposed superstition by parents and students alike. Slytherin bred badness. Gryffindor bred goodness. White and black, truth and darkness.

"The Manichean bourgeois," Scorpius had declared spitefully back in Third year.

Albus agreed with him.

The boy in question was not visible at the Slytherin table. Albus sat by himself, closest to the end of the Hall as possible. He nodded hello to a few students, although he couldn't be bothered to join in any of their conversation. Even after seven years of education, some Slytherins still regarded Albus with an air of thinly disguised distrust. It was all on the down-low, of course; any supposed traitors were stamped out in the wizarding world with the efficiency of one eliminating a cockroach. But even that threat didn't stop teenagers whispering.

* * *

Scorpius didn't appear throughout dinner, nor did he barge into the room he shared with Albus, who stayed awake for several hours, hoping for a glimpse of the rare, endangered Scorpius Malfoy.

The population of Slytherin house was so low, that they were the only house that had only six seventh years. Naturally, numbers had been divided, and rooms allocated neatly. Gryffindor, on the other hand, had spilled to occupy three of the massive towers of Hogwarts, the pillars of red and gold visible from as far away as the Quidditch pitch.

Gloomily, Albus lolled by the fire on the squashy sofa, his new school books scattered around him. He badly wanted Rose's company, but she was far more popular than he, and was probably engaged with some of her other friends. He was betting on her to become Head Girl next year. Albus felt a cruel flicker of cheer that James hadn't been chosen as Head Boy this year. That was the last thing his big-headed brother needed.

Albus watched the fire leap and dance, sending otherworldly shadows to cavort along the cold stone walls and flagstone floor. It was rather Greek, he thought, like the _Bacchae_. He imagined creatures of the dark melting through the floor, their voidless miasma seeping into one another like ink, a thousand eyes, a carpet of stars, watching him and coaxing him along with their silky voices. Albus closed his eyes, letting his imagination draw him ever further towards sleep.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear Rose's and his parent's voices telling him to stop, their mingled tones tiptoeing the edge between pleading and horror. But this secret world of his, the black flashes in the corner of his eyes, his dreams that ended with him tumbling forever in a spiral of velvety blackness – it was his haven. It was a place away from his Gryffindor family, from heroism and Potter exceptionalism. It was a place just for Albus Severus, named after the greatest men his father had ever known.

But every good man has a shadow, Albus thought hazily. He fell asleep.


	2. reunited

When Albus awoke, he instantly became aware of two things. One: that is was the dreaded first day of his seventh year at Hogwarts. And two: he had a raging hard on.

Muffling a sleepy moan, Albus rolled over and pressed his heated groin into the mattress. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to banish the last vestiges of his dream from his mind.

Instead, a boy with a milky bare chest and silver-blonde hair swam before his eyes. In his dream the boy had kissed him hard and fast, hot tongue sliding over his own with desperate fervour. The boy's hand had slid down Albus' chest, making straight for the waistband of his trousers…

Hardly thinking, Albus turned his head further into his pillow and shoved a hand down his pants. With the half-hearted fluidity of an action performed too many times, Albus brought himself off, biting down viciously on his lower lip to stifle any sound.

He was finished embarrassingly quickly. Groping blindly for his wand, Albus cleaned himself, then rolled back over to stare blankly at the ceiling of his canopy. He knew his little… crush… was completely out of hand – pun intended. Albus knew there was approximately zero chance that his feelings were reciprocated; and he wasn't even considering that there was a possibility, at all. Albus wasn't a falsely modest young boy. He knew he wasn't attractive. The only character trait that would make him attractive to a boy like Scorpius was his intelligence. He, Rose, and Scorpius had been fighting for the top academic award for their year level since he could remember. It was probably why they had become friends in the first place.

Albus brought up a hand to toy with his long fringe, pulling the liquid black strands between his fingers despondently. Perhaps if he cared more about his appearance, like James, Scorpius would be interested.

The thought of his brother, however, caused the expected reaction, and Albus curled his lip meanly. Of course, his brother had next to no luck with girls (or boys; although Albus knew his brother's opinion on homosexuality like the back of his hand). He was as precocious as his namesake, according to their dad; highly-strung and dangerously flirtatious, perhaps a touch more lewd than their grandfather, but definitely in competition for the late Sirius Black.

Albus had never known Sirius, but the name so often passed the lips of his parents, he felt as if he did. The Potter children had been weaned on stories of courage and bravery during the war. Perhaps his parents had thought it would instil the same character, as if through osmosis. Albus tugged his hair a little too roughly, and his hand fell down onto the sheets. Well, it hadn't worked with him, had it?

Lying still for a few more moment, delaying the inevitable, Abus eventually sat up and tugged his curtains aside. The bed parallel to his was empty. A jolt of panic and confusion went through him. A second rush of confusion brought his attention to the fact that he had slept in his bed. Albus couldn't remember if he had woken up during the night to move from the sofa – but even as he thought this, he noticed the expensive trunk at the foot of Scorpius' bed. The other boy's pyjamas were tossed carelessly over the lid, rumpled with sleep.

Albus felt a smile appear, though he tried to ignore his mind going haywire at the fact that maybe, just maybe, Scorpius had moved him during the night. The thought of Scorpius' cool hands touching him sent shivers of electricity along his body, and without warning, Albus felt his crotch tighten.

"For the love of Merlin," he breathed, exasperated and flustered. Albus collapsed backwards onto his bed and didn't move for a little while longer.

* * *

Breakfast had almost finished by the time Albus eventually dragged himself up to the Great Hall. The remaining students were chattering excitedly about new classes, most or all clutching crumpled slivers of parchment dictating their timetables.

Albus glanced over to the Ravenclaw table, although the familiar red haired, Rose-shaped beacon was absent. Feeling put out, Albus skulked over to Slytherin.

"Good morning, _Potter._"

Albus' heart leapt at the familiar voice. The grin sprang to his lips unbidden, the rush of blood suddenly very loud in his ears. His eyes met the studious gaze of Scorpius, his poker face excellent except for the gleam of happiness in his silvery grey eyes.

Scorpius looked unfairly well-put together. His angular face, characterised by high cheekbones and the strong swoop of his square jaw, was rested and calm. Scorpius' harshly aristocratic nose and his petulant, thin mouth might have detracted from his marble beauty, were it not for his exceptionally odd-coloured eyes. Blonde hair tangled in his sooty eyelashes, cut it such a way that it was very short and the sides and back, and longer at the top. Albus was reminded of young men in the forties or fifties, propped lazily against greased up broomsticks, wearing loose, suggestive robes.

The image made him flush, which only caused a smile to bloom across Scorpius' Renaissance features. That was the thing about Scorpius. One moment Albus was comparing him to a Grecian statue; the next a fresh-faced country manor heir.

Aware that he had paused too long, Albus drew himself together with effort. "Morning to you, _Malfoy,_" he returned cheekily, sitting down beside his other best friend. "And where have you been, exactly?"

Scorpius rolled his eyes dramatically, ever the prince of his fawning court. Albus noticed that across the Hall, eyes were drawn to them; to Scorpius. "Father tried very hard not to throw a fit, but I could tell he desperately wanted to. We fought again, no big deal." He shrugged and returned to his toast, which was soggy with butter. "It was about my choice of classes." Scorpius paused, took a bite. "And of my friends," he added with forced indifference.

Albus' heart twisted. In an attempt to look nonchalant, he poured himself a cup of tea and spooned about half a bowl of sugar into it. "What classes are you taking?" It was an unspoken rule between Rose, Scorpius, and himself. Family was both the dividing and unifying factor in their friendship. An acknowledgement of either was uncommon.

Scorpius' expression flashed with gratitude at Albus' studious tiptoeing around the other issue. "Divination, Astrology, Alchemy, and Art."

"Art?" Albus repeated, baffled. "I didn't know you could draw."

"I am a man of many talents," Scorpius replied seriously, meeting Albus' gaze head-on.

Albus valiantly maintained eye contact for about two seconds before he ducked his head and took a long, scalding gulp of tea. He spluttered and coughed mightily, to Scorpius' amusement.

"But I can't draw, not really," Scorpius continued, after thumping Albus on the back. "I did it to annoy father. He wanted me to do Potions, or at the very least Defence."

"You're doing Alchemy," Albus pointed out, puzzled, to which Scorpius only shrugged and said, "Apparently it's not really the same."

As Albus helped himself to a boiled egg, Scorpius produced a piece of parchment and tucked it into Albus' pocket. There was a brief moment when Scorpius' body was terrifyingly close to Albus' own, when Scorpius' fingers brushed Albus' thigh for a touch too long, and Albus felt like he was back in his dream from the night before.

"There's your timetable," Scorpius said quietly. Albus stared resolutely at his egg, knowing that Scorpius was watching him, his face agonizingly close to Albus' own.

When Scorpius finally drew back, Albus fumbled in his pocket and unfolded his timetable. "I'm free until lunchtime," he remarked, half thrilled and half aghast. The dreaded first day was postponed, at least for a little while – although Albus was terrified he might retreat to his room and wank indefinitely. This much of Scorpius after so long was making him uncomfortably hot.

"What's your first class?" Scorpius asked, leaning towards Albus again, although Albus hurriedly muttered something about Ghoul Studies before he could get too close.

The promising prospect of his class helped stave off his lecherous thoughts for a while, at least. He'd been fascinated by otherworldly creatures since he had seen the ghoul in the Weasley attic that had, according to uncle Ron, 'saved his bacon'. Albus wanted to know why ghosts existed, why they remained, long after they could move on. He was drawn to veela, amused by vampires. Albus liked the theory behind these creatures; he just wasn't fond of shoving his arms elbow-high in flobberworm eggs.

"Rose's dad was mad about her not going into Defence as well," Albus remembered, getting up from the table with Scorpius, and starting towards Scorpius' first class. "My parents didn't say anything, but I think mum was a bit weird about it."

"You're not doing Defence either?"

Albus shook his head, his hair waving before his eyes like submerged seaweed, heavy and dull. "It's too…" He paused, unsure of how to continue.

"Yeah," Scorpius finished quietly. The pair continued to the fourth floor in silence, their arms brushing against one another, their footsteps in sync. When they reached the classroom door, Scorpius turned and dazzled Albus with a warm smile. "Thanks for the entourage," he teased, "I'll owl you when I need to go to the loo."

"Fuck off, Malfoy," Albus laughed, and Scorpius grinned. "Rose wants to meet us in the library sometime today," Albus added, before Scorpius went into the classroom.

"She's probably yearning for my effervescent personality," Scorpius remarked, pretending to sound resigned. "The poor girl, she really should move on."

Albus rolled his eyes, though he couldn't stop grinning.


End file.
